The baby has tonsillitis!
This comes as a great shock to me. I’ve had tonsillitis before, and Bernard seems to be coping with it much better than I ever did. I have two choices: either refuse to accept that the doctor’s diagnosis is correct, or accept the fact that I am a big soft wuss and my baby has his shit together.
Upon unwrapping a pongsome nappy, we discover that my baby does, indeed, have his shit together, and I need no longer ask these questions.
The baby looks at me with clear self-superiority in his eyes, and I continue.